


Consumed

by KingofTrees



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:07:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingofTrees/pseuds/KingofTrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sigil dug deeper ever day, and a little more memory was consigned to oblivion. Yet all his Captain cares for is his work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consumed

**Author's Note:**

> Sunless Sea is really an excellent game. I highly recommend it. 
> 
> Just a quick thing while I work at university. I'll definitely try to write at least the Navigator's story; maybe more of my Captain's adventures if I have the time.

It looked almost serene, the way the chapel stood proud amidst the inky unterzee, the walls and roof more half-melted tallow than anything else. Candles of every colour imaginable dotted the small, half-rotten jetty that constituted a dock, a sea of smoky wisps and enamel-yellow light. He heard whispers, half-formed sentences of gibberish that made him shiver. Small steamers and rowing boats were tied to the sodden wood poles in the shallows, one of which was in the process of being embarked by a small collection of tomb-colonists, their bandages turning to mulch in the black saltwater zee. One of them looked at him with hungry interest as they clambered with undead agility onto their ship, and he felt the icon crawl across his face.

“It’s bothering you again, I see. Hmph.” The Captain was unamused with his agonised grimace; his grey whiskers shifted on his face like a rodent attempting to get comfy. The fact that he had managed to convince the old stickler to even sail this far up North was a miracle in itself, but he had long learnt not to praise the Gods for such events when there was no salvation forthcoming.

“I apologise, zir. The sigil...it remembers this place, I think. I can’t be sure with it.”

“You can never be sure with witchcraft and zee-magic, Navigator,” he replied with the air of a man filled with the confidence of one who had seen rather a lot of things in his life, “which is why I tend to spurn such practitioners.”  
  
“Yet you brought me aboard.”  
  
“And that was an excellent decision.” Idiot fool. “Do not make me regret that choice, Navigator.”

His sigil pulsed red again and he bit down on the inside of his lip, preventing himself from cursing in front of his Captain. He did not allow many things aboard his ship; liberal use of zwears was included in that extensive list. He thought that the zailors would have mutinied when he banned dicing were it not for the intervention of the Campaigner.

The candles only served to grow in density as they approached the doors of the chapel, itself covered in filthy, wax-ridden candelabras. Red tallow-smothered brass. The grass was full of burnt out wicks.

“We must wait,” he said as the Captain strode purposefully past him and knocked on the wooden door with gusto. His sigil pounded with every blow.

“Captain,” he warned, “please show some respect for the people of this place. I remember little enough about what goes on within those wal-”

“Nonsense,” the Captain boomed, “what harm could a priest do us? Remember what watches from the south, Navigator! We will be fine, most assuredly.”

Whatever response he was going to give died on his breath when the Smiling Priest opened the door.

“Hello, my children,” he stated in a voice as smooth as hot blood. “Are you hungry?”

* * *

 

The Captain and his crew, all seventeen of them, sat next to the Priest as the congregation brought out food he had never before seen or tasted on the Neath. Meat, red and raw and hours-fresh which the Captain tore into with wolf-like relish. A stew of pork, onions, potatoes and button mushrooms which he sipped half-heartedly, washed down with wine. Actual wine from the Surface, made from Bordeaux grapes, thick and red, a sweetness he had never tasted from the Greyfields of Fallen London. The Mechanic laughed alongside the Cannoneer as they shared a braised pig’s head, slicing through the soft cheeks to eat on soft bread alongside the crispy roasted ears and pickled cabbage imported from Munich. Even the cavie joined in the feast, the pig-like rodent making soft noises as it ripped its way through a juicy meal of tomatoes and piquant radishes and even a little cheese - red leicester from the looks of it. His sigil was calmed for the first time in weeks, sitting on his face like a content bird.

“By light and law, man,” his Captain extolled, his whiskers stained crimson and his eyes hungrily scanning along the table, “how did you acquire such a feast? I thought it was impossible to grow Surface plants here! I haven’t had real wine in decades!”

“There are ways,” the Smiling Priest stated as he tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “Greenhouses are one such magical secret. I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you the others. How was the passage here? Did the Daughter give you trouble?”

“Oh! The passage was perfect, not a problem. Some black mountain appeared on the horizon at one point but I gave it the old one-two and sent it on its sorry way!” If by one-two he meant a terrified order to boost the engines to full power and about turn.

“Yes. Quite. And what about you,” the Priest asked him. “What brings you to the Chapel of Lights?”

His sigil chose that moment to relocate further down its neck ever so slightly, and his brief yell and a spilled bowl of stew more than answered his question. The Priest’s eyes lit up with pity as the congregation rushed to clean up the mess with wax-stained napkins.

“My dear fellow, he’s been like this ever since I hired him! His grunts and shrieks are distracting and irritating and that sigil hurts my eyes! Quite frankly, I feel sorry for the poor blighter! That damnable sigil and whoever cursed him with it should go to the darkest depths of the zee!”

“Yes. Interesting design, that sigil, I recall seeing it before. But that is a discussion for later.”

“I would discuss this now,” he hissed in pain. “Please.”

The Smiling Priest merely bowed his head in submission. “Of course. Sir, Captain, meet me by the well in five hours. Please do help yourself to dessert - the blood orange cake is excellent.”

* * *

 

When the rest of the ship had tucked themselves into their hammocks and beds, the Captain and him slipped out and went to join the Priest by the well. It was a vast thing; the brim was surrounded entirely by candles, and he felt the sigil squirm on his face like a terrified bat when he leaned over the edge.

“Your sigil has the right line of thoughts, Sir. Step away from the well, lest the Drowned God take you in his embrace.”

“The Drowned God?” The Captain frowned as he thought to himself, before he suddenly went white as spider-silk. “You can’t possibly mean-”

“Yes,” the Priest interrupted before the Captain could go any further. “Do not speak his Name. Not by a source of his power, so near the Horizon. There is a reason the Daughter is so far from her home.”

He looked at the Smiling Priest, robed in the colour of wine, framed against flickering candlelight and the almost unnoticeable glow coming from above. He didn’t dare look up. No one did this far North.

“How do I remove this sigil? How do I regain my memories?”

“You cannot. This is the answer to both questions.” His sigil exulted in its triumph by attempting to grow, and something inside him snapped. Before the Captain could stop him, he had grabbed the Priest by his robes and forced his body over the well. A rising of his legs and he would go to his terrible god. The voices grew louder; the Captain took a step backwards in alarm.

“I did not come all this way,” he spat, “to be denied. How do I remove this thing _squatting on my face?_ ”

Inexplicably, the Priest maintained his cheerful composure.

“I tell the truth. But the memories of how you got the sigil are still there. They are even here. Only partially, I am afraid; when the Whithermen dropped you off you were half-delirious and absent-minded.”

“Then what did I know? What did they do? Tell me!”

“I will. But first I have a job for you. Do this, and you will get your knowledge.”

He contemplated pushing him down the well there and then, damn his knowledge. But a gesture from the Captain bade him to let him loose. The Priest stood up and brushed his robes with the demeanour of someone putting on a dusty overcoat.

“Well,” the Priest began. “We are lacking a crucial ingredient to our feast tomorrow. The meat.” The Captain started. “We have no meat. But...you have plenty of crew.”

He paled. What he was suggesting was...no. Abominable. He would have no part of it.

“Here,” the Captain said as he took a key off the master ring he kept in his uniform pocket, “Room 6. Lazy good-for-nothing barely does any work all day, she’d rather dice and drink and sleep with other zailors than earn her keep! You can have her. Just...be quiet.” The hungry slant to his constant look of disdain unnerved the Navigator, and he realised just what his employer had been devouring during the feast. He turned and vomited into a bush, the sigil playing over his temple like a snake. If the Priest heard his curses he did not react, but his Captain shook him by the shoulder.

“Be silent, Navigator,” he hissed between his teeth. “I’m doing you a favour here, damn you. I have no desire to lose you; not when you are worth so much.”

“Is that all that matters to you? My ability to drive your ship?”

“Yes.”

Heartless bastard. Had his sigil not chosen to shift, he would have spat in the old man’s face. But as he rolled in the wick-strewn dirt, desperately trying to prevent himself from screaming as he slammed his fist into the tattoo, something inside him admitted defeat. The Priest stood over his curled-up form with an expression of...satisfaction? Remorse?

“Rest assured, Captain, we will be utterly discreet,” the Priest assured them as he led them back to the dock, a napkin in hand to wipe his bile-stained mouth. “She will not suffer, and her soul will go in peace to the Man In The Well. And, dear Navigator, you would do well to be silent on the matter. It would really be a shame if the sigil’s effects were...accelerated.”

And later that night, he heard hushed footsteps creeping around his cabin door. The breakfast next morning was late, and held in the crypt. Carpaccio with salad leaves, thin steaks fried with portobello mushrooms, chops cooked on a charcoal grill, patties covered with tomato relish. His employer shovelled it all into his mouth, as did everyone else. No one asked where Lucy went. The mad, angry glare they got from the Captain when they attempted was dissuasion enough.

Later, he and the Captain met the Priest by the altar. It looked every bit the Anglican church, save that the font had gone; replaced by a cobblestone well.

“Thank you for providing us with food, old chap,” the Captain exclaims, his whiskers crusted with red flecks, “utterly delicious. Now, if you’d be so kind to fulfil your side of the bargain.”

“Yes. Your sigil, my friend. I have seen it before.”

“Where? Tell me!”

  
“Frostfound. Yes, that Frostfound,” he confirmed to his horror, “carved into the icy walls. I have no idea what it means, exactly, but perhaps if you would go there you would find out why you have it branded into your forehead.”

“I...yes. I suppose that is a good idea. Do you know what it means?”  
  
The Priest spread his hands remorsefully.

“I have no idea, I’m afraid,” he stated. “That road leads to madness. Or divinity. In the Neath, they are interchangeable.”

“Yes, well, that’s nice and all,” the Captain blustered. “Thank you for the meal, my friend. It was jolly good. I shall look forwards to the next time I dock here.”

“Of course. You are welcome here, Mr. Minsley, as are your crew. Especially the rank-and-file.”

The Priest’s wink made him want to retch.

* * *

 

Later, while they were at zee, the Captain came to his room. The old man didn’t announce his presence; he stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back.

“Please, zir, let me do my work in peace. The sigil is especially bothersome today.”

“As long as you get us to Wolfstack safely. The Admiralty will want to hear of what the Corsairs up to, and the sooner they do, the better for all of us.”

“Yes, zir.”

“When we arrive in London, the Merchant Venturer will give us a new item to get. I’ll tell you where we will need to go. You put your skills to use.”

“Yes, zir.”

“And Navigator…”

A knife slammed down onto the wooden table, his meaty hands grasping the leather handle. It was laced with devilbone. He leaned in close enough for him to see the flecks of Dawn in his eyes.  There was a slant to his expression; something lean and hungry and dangerous, and he was once again reminded that this was a man who had fought the armies of Hell and lived. The colour of his whiskers was one of storm.

“The next time you have another episode like the one last night, you’ll be breaking bread with the Drownies. No one disrespects me like that; not on my ship.”

  
And he was gone. His sigil moved along with the ship, but the nausea that came was not from either.


End file.
